


landed in a very common crisis

by poppyseedheart (hockeycaptains)



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Fake AH Crew, Hurt/Comfort, Interrogation, Kidnapping, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 13:38:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10309313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hockeycaptains/pseuds/poppyseedheart
Summary: Michael has a very bad feeling about all of this, compounded by the fact that Meg knows a lot more about their crew than anyone else is supposed to have caught on to. Meg’s supposed to be a mysterious lone wolf, an assassin for hire, a shadow. That reputation is supposed to keep her safe.(Michael lets his guard down and everything, very quickly, goes straight to hell.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi new fandom!! I'm here with a very dramatic fic and a very random ship. It's unebta'd because I'm new around these parts, so all mistakes are naturally my own. I hope you enjoy reading this! <3

Michael immediately catalogues three things when he wakes up: first, he’s chained to the wall by an ankle; second, the room is too dark to see much past his own hand; and third, he’s not alone in here.

“Hey,” he says, grimacing at how gravelly his voice has gone. His throat’s dry, mouth cottony. Probably a side effect of whatever they gave him to knock him out, or else a side effect of dehydration. He has no idea how long he’s been here. “Hey,” he says again. He’s too far away to reach the other person, but they look to be chained up, too.

He’s answered by a decidedly female groan. The figure shifts until she’s sitting up, leaning her weight against the wall. “Michael?”

 _Fuck_ , Michael thinks vehemently. She shouldn’t be here. He’d punch something if he didn’t think he'd still need his hands to fight, just in case. “Yeah,” he says. His cover’s blown, but these people probably know who he is anyway. He’s not exactly low profile in this city, not the way Meg is. “Hey, Dollface.”

Meg seems to get the hint, because she doesn’t correct him, or even shoot him a look. Michael’s eyes are adjusting slowly to the low light, and he can make out some of her features. Seeing her face here, though, is a cold comfort considering the situation.

She tugs at the chain experimentally. “Do you know who locked us in here?” she asks. Her tone has shifted into professionalism, calculating.

“No,” answers Michael. He’d been turned around when they stuffed the bag over his head and shoved a needle in his neck, and he hasn’t seen anyone since he woke up but Meg. Their last run hadn’t gotten them a lot of cash anyway, and he’d be shocked if the owners of a gas station decided to get payback like this instead of by more formal, legal means. The fact that Meg is here is most concerning, honestly; she’s not officially affiliated with the crew, preferring to work alone or occasionally as a hire on independent jobs. Even if it is a coincidence that they’re here together, it makes something uneasy turn in Michael’s stomach.

“Hey,” says Meg, and then jerks her head up toward the top corner of the room by the door.

Michael only catches a glimpse of the flashing red light of a camera before the door slams open with a heavy thud.

The overhead lights blink on so bright that Michael shields his eyes with his hands until they adjust. When they do, his stomach drops to his feet.

“Who are you?” asks Meg, voice shaking believably, but Michael knows she knows.

The man just laughs. He’s wearing an awful cliché leather jacket, and he’s standing just out of reach of Michael’s range with the chain. “Oh, come on, Meg,” he says, familiarity in his tone making Michael bristle, “don’t tell me you don’t recognize me.”

Her jaw clenches tight. Michael wants to go to her, or at least see how much slack this chain actually has on his way to try, but there’s still a chance that EC doesn’t know how deep their relationship actually runs, and it’s not a risk he’s willing to take.

“What do you want?” he asks. They all know how this goes. Might as well get all the cards out on the table first.

EC just looks at Michael for a long moment. Michael looks back. “What else?” he says finally. “Information. The Fakes have been making things difficult for me lately. I want that to change.”

It’s so fucking cliché that Michael can’t help but roll his eyes, line of his body tense and angry but not afraid where he’s crouching, ready to pounce if anyone gets too close. He knows he isn’t giving anything up. The rest of the damage they can fix later, broken bones or whatever included, and he wouldn’t be surprised if the rest of the crew was already on their way.

“I’m not giving you shit,” he says, in case it wasn’t clear enough already.

“I’m not worried about that part,” says EC, smiling placidly. It’s unsettling. “Why do you think she’s here?” He inclines his head toward Meg.

Meg looks like she’s trying very hard to keep her expression neutral, and if Michael didn’t know her so well he’d think she managed it. As it is, he sees her jaw tick and her fists clench by her hips. “I don’t know anything about the Fakes,” she says. “No more than you do, or any other rival crew.”

“See,” says EC, stepping closer to Meg, “I find that hard to believe. And in any case, you can still be useful to me.”

Meg just glares, stubborn. EC is still smiling. Michael has a very bad feeling about all of this, compounded by the fact that Meg knows a lot more about their crew than anyone else is supposed to have caught on to. Meg’s supposed to be a mysterious lone wolf, an assassin for hire, a shadow. That reputation is supposed to keep her safe.

The door opens again, and two new thugs come in. By the way they look to EC for guidance, Michael would guess they’re new to the scene, or at least not established members of the gang. While he’s chained up he can’t do much about it, but when his crew gets here he knows they’ll be able to take advantage of that.

“She’s not part of this,” says Michael. “Let her go.”

“But you care,” says EC, “and she cares, and that’s reason enough for me to keep her. _Use_ her. I’m sure you can figure that out, can’t you, Jones?”

Michael tugs at the chain with his ankle again, testing it. There’s no give, because it’s new metal and hasn’t rusted, and he wants to scream. “Alright, you piece of shit,” he says, shoving down the anxiety and fear as deep as he can, “what information are you looking for?” That weakness has no place here. He’ll just keep the attention on himself for as long as possible, and keep an arrogant, surly front. Easy enough.

“Names,” is the immediate answer. “I know yours, but only after running your prints. You and your crew are fucking hard to pin down legally.”

Michael groans internally. Gavin’s gonna kill him for getting compromised like this. “That’s kind of the point,” he quips, “since we’re criminals and all.”

His smartass answer gets him backhanded across the face where he’d been in a half crouch. He stumbles back onto his haunches, but shakes it off quickly. A trickle of blood runs down the side of his face where the fucker’s ring split the skin at his cheekbone, but he doesn’t even move to wipe it off. He’s had a hell of a lot worse, and he has a feeling this is just the start, anyway.

EC is still just looking at him, expression calculating. “If you want her to get out of here alive,” he says, nodding toward Meg, “you’re going to give me the names. It’s up to you how hard you want to make it on yourself.” When Michael doesn’t say anything, he continues. “No one has to know, Michael. You give me the names, you both walk, and you don’t have to tell your crew you betrayed them. No one has to get hurt. It’s a win-win.”

Michael hates himself a little for being tempted to take the offer. It’s a nice fantasy, it just leaves out the part where Michael is a dirty traitor and EC kills someone because Michael couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“Who’s the Kingpin, Michael?” asks EC calmly. “I need a name.” 

A pause.

“Go fuck yourself,” says Michael.

EC sighs, affects an air of disappointment. “I was hoping we could do this civilly. If you don’t want to, though, we have other ways."

He waves a hand toward Meg, curt, and one of the grunts grabs her arm and lifts her to her feet. She’s putting almost all of her weight on her left leg, and she has to stumble awkwardly to catch her balance as she’s forced to stand. Michael hadn’t realized she was hurt. Despite her careful posture, though, her face is a blank mask, completely composed. 

They unchain her from the wall, but their grip on her is tight, and she doesn’t try to break free. Michael knows that part of the reason she doesn’t bother is because she’d be leaving him here alone even if she did escape. It’s the same thing he’d do for her, but it doesn’t make it easier to stomach.

“Don’t touch her,” growls Michael. He knows better than to show his cards, but this guy’s had an ace up his sleeve since he started forming this plan, and Michael doesn’t see the point anymore in pretending he doesn’t care.

EC doesn’t even acknowledge him, though. Instead, he turns to Meg, creepy villain smile still in place, and says, “This doesn’t end until one of you starts giving me names. And Mr. Jones over here will likely find it difficult to… focus as things progress.”

It’s the first time Michael has ever felt deeply relieved at the prospect of being tortured for information. At least it’s him. Meg, on the other hand, looks a little green. He catches her eyes and tries to broadcast the general idea of “don’t give them anything” while reassuring her that they’ll be fine at the same time. He isn’t sure it works by the grimace on her face.

By this point, most of the effects of whatever they used to knock him out have worn off, and he’s hyperaware of the fact that they only chained his ankle. If he can get one of them close enough, maybe he can- or he could try to just- he and Meg are outnumbered and she’s hurt but maybe-

Fuck. He’ll figure something out, but he can’t do anything while they still have her by the arms. Meg is capable, but she’s hurt, and neither of them currently has a death wish.

He lets himself be dragged to his feet by one arm without protest, though he knows his expression is sour. “You’re not getting any names,” he reminds EC. “Meg doesn’t know shit, and I’m not giving you a fucking thing.”

“If you want it to end at any point,” says EC, “give a wave or something.”

Michael spits at his feet, and immediately takes a punch to the nose from one of the brutes that are working as henchmen on this interrogation. The guy’s huge, and Michael doesn’t even have time to dodge it before he’s being socked. He recoils, hand to his face, and feels blood dripping down his upper lip. His nose feels tender but not broken, so that’s something, at least. His face must be a mess already.

He’s had worse, but it still fucking stings. “Go fuck yourself,” he says. The words sound wet because he’s trying to speak through blood, but he doesn’t care.

EC gestures to the man that just punched Michael. “Grab a chair and some cuffs. We’ll make him a bit more comfortable.”

Michael seethes, but there’s nothing to do as the man walks out of the room and returns with a metal chair and two pairs of handcuffs. He throws the chair at the ground near Michael’s feet and it clatters against the concrete. “Sit,” he says.

Michael sneers. The guy holding his arm kicks at the back of Michael’s knee and drags him down into the chair when he buckles, pinning down his forearms while the other guy fastens his wrists to each arm of the chair.

All in all, it takes them about a minute total to get the chair and get him secured to it. Michael hates being restrained, which he doesn’t think is unreasonable, and he immediately tests at the bonds. His ankle is still chained to the corner of the room, the chair just inside the radius, so even if he could get to his feet somehow he wouldn’t get very far.

The henchmen back up, leaving Michael sitting there like an asshole. EC walks over, leaning down in front of Michael and looking at him down his thin nose. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do this,” he says.

“That’s creepy as shit,” answers Michael. Swear jar, he thinks randomly. He’s been leading the tally for months. Might as well stick to what he knows. “You been following me around? Keeping track of my hits? I’m flattered.”

“The Kingpin,” prompts EC, evidently tired of making conversation.

Michael pretends to hesitate. “If I give you a name you’ll let her go?”

“Michael,” says Meg, sharp. She must be pretty freaked out if she’s buying his act. He doesn’t look at her because he needs to be firing on all cylinders if they’re gonna get out of here alive, and it’s distracting to feel the sick clench of worry that comes every time their eyes meet.

“I’ll give her a seat to get some weight off of that broken foot,” says EC. “Shame that happened, must’ve been an accident.” Michael fumes at his light, amused tone. “She’s slippery. We’ve done our research. Once you give me five names, you’re both free to go.”

This guy must be out of his mind if he thinks Michael is gonna believe him. Michael has interrogated people himself; he knows what happens, and they sure as hell don’t get off scot-free at the end. At best, it’s a mercy kill, a single shot between the eyes. Quick, painless, and easy to clean up. At worst… the cleanup’s not so easy, and it isn’t so quick or painless either.

“The Kingpin’s name,” says Michael, faux-defeated, keeping his gaze trained on the floor, “is Dong Master.”

EC huffs a sarcastic laugh and steps back. The line of his smile is tense, predatory. “From now on,” he tells his lackeys, “the answers come from her. He can cry mercy all he wants, but we don’t listen. Understood?”

The lackeys nod. Michael rolls his eyes spectacularly. Why is it that he always gets stuck with the assholes with super villain complexes? It’s like this guy wants a starring role in some action movie as the shitbag that almost wins but literally loses every single time. Come on. Why can’t Michael be more like Ryan, who gets kidnappers who are in way over their head and end up whimpering in terror every time, or Gavin, who manages to stumble upon the nicest bad guys ever who just want some money for ransom? It’s fucking unjust, is what it is.

“Miss Turney, do you understand?”

Meg stiffens, and Michael does his damnedest not to react at all. Knowing her first name was one thing, but her last name too? Fucking fuck. Someone on her end isn’t doing their job, or maybe it’s his end. Maybe there’s a leak somewhere so far down the line that neither of them will be able to figure it out anytime soon.

Meg glances over at Michael, and he meets her gaze steadily, still trying to project calm even as blood drips down his chin onto his jeans and his hands tense where they’re cuffed to the chair. “I don’t know anything,” she says. “This won’t get you anywhere.”

“My crew’s gonna be here soon anyway,” adds Michael. He’s about fifty percent sure that they’re close, judging by past kidnappings, and if they’re not close then they’re working on it. “If you wanna live, you should probably let us go.”

“I need this information,” says EC, “but this is a message, too. You’ve gotten cocky, Michael. You and your crew both. You aren’t the only ones living in Los Santos, and you certainly don’t run the place.” EC turns to his lackeys. “When I say, stick to the face as best you can. I want him unrecognizable by the end of this.”

Michael doesn’t groan, but he wants to. The rest of them will kill him if he comes out of this looking like an MMA fighter who came out on the wrong side of a beatdown. They’ll also take it as a personal slight, which is annoying enough on its own, but will also give this prick the satisfaction of knowing they were bothered in the five seconds before he gets his head blown off.

“Meg,” says EC, turning back to her. “I need a name.”

Meg sighs. “I don’t know.”

“Very well,” says EC, like he was expecting it. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Boys?”

Michael braces as much as he can, but a sucker punch to the jaw is always going to suck, especially when he’s not as ramped up on adrenaline as he would be if all this had started a little earlier and he wasn’t strapped down for it. Just as he’s wincing from the first impact, he takes another hit, fist pummeling his cheekbone. His head snaps to the side, and he only manages half a ragged gasp before he doubles over, punch to the gut leaving him breathless.

The assault continues, hit after hit, mostly centered on his face as was promised, and Michael does his best to zone out the way he always does in interrogations. This isn’t the first time someone has tried to win by pummeling his face in, and probably won’t be the last. For all that he can be loud, Michael knows how to be quiet, too. Can keep his mouth shut, even as his lower lip ends up caught in his teeth and starts bleeding and swelling.

He’s sure he doesn’t look very pretty right now. When they finally stop hitting him, his face feels hot and bruised and bloody, and he’s not exactly keen on finding a mirror.

He spits on the ground next to his feet, and it’s half blood.

“That all you got?” he asks.

One of the lackeys kicks a leg of his chair, and then Michael’s falling backwards, nothing he can do to brace the fall. He lands on his back, which is good, but then the back of his head hits the concrete with a dull crack and he’s seeing stars. For a long moment, the only thought going through his head is _fuuuuuuuuuuuck_.

He gets hoisted back up, dizzy enough that he almost loses his lunch right there on the floor, and breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth until the nausea passes.

“How much longer?” EC asks one of his lackeys.

The lackey pulls out a phone and checks it. His knuckles are bruised, Michael can’t help but notice. “Half an hour, give or take a few minutes,” says the lackey.

EC smiles, and it’s mostly a snarl. “Plenty of time. Meg, do you have a name for us?”

Her jaw is clenched, hands in fists at her sides. Her eyes are bright, but she hasn’t cried, and she looks more angry than she does upset. “I told you,” she says, “I don’t know.” She sounds dismissive, like she can’t believe she’s still here. It’s an Oscar-winning performance, honestly. Michael would believe her himself if he hadn’t seen her in the Fakes’ base last week, chatting with Geoff over coffee.

“Would another round jog your memory?” asks EC.

Meg doesn’t even flinch, and Michael’s proud of her for it. “There’s no memory to jog,” she says evenly.

The way EC is looking at her makes Michael nervous, though. The wheels in his head are spinning, and nothing about this has been fun thus far. It’s just kept getting worse. He tries to bring the attention back to himself.

“You’re pathetic,” says Michael. “Can’t even do your research right. She doesn’t know a damn thing, and I can hold out for thirty fucking minutes no problem. You’re screwed. Might as well leave now and get a head start, because your head’s gonna be on a platter by the end of this.”

EC sighs, sounds bored. “Again,” he tells the lackeys.

Michael takes a wicked punch to the temple that further exacerbates the pounding in his head, and two more to the ribs that leave him short of breath. He tries to duck out of the way, instinct overpowering his determination to look cool and collected, and the lackeys stop for a second. 

He blinks his eyes open just as one of them feints a hit. He flinches. The lackey laughs.

“More, boss?” he asks.

EC looks at Meg, who just shrugs a shoulder delicately. She still looks green around the gills, jaw tight, but her expression is remarkably nonchalant considering the situation. “I don’t have anything to say to you.” 

Michael, bleeding down the side of his face and short of breath, is proud of her.

EC pauses, clearly thinking. After a moment, he clears his throat. “We’ve been going about this incorrectly,” he says to his lackeys. “Clearly she’s stronger than he is. What do you say we mix things up?”

“Sounds good, boss,” says a lackey. “Should we leave him like this?”

“Yes,” says EC. “Just make sure he’s watching. We don’t want him to miss any of the action.”

Michael tries to blink some of the fuzziness out of his thoughts, the result of so many hits to the head in so little time. “What?”

“You can just sit tight for a minute, Michael. Think about your crew, let us know if any names come to mind.” EC is walking away from Michael and towards Meg, and Michael’s heart sinks to his stomach like an anchor.

“Wait,” says Michael recklessly, panic overcoming his rational mind. If he can keep the focus on him- if he can just keep them away from Meg-

EC grins. “We’ve waited plenty.” Then he walks right up to Meg and steps down on her broken foot, hard.

She screams. 

It’s a raw and hurt sound, and she strains against the guards holding her up to curl in on herself. Her eyes are squeezed shut. When she opens them, she’s looking right at Michael, and she’s breathing hard. Her gaze is steel, but Michael can feel himself slipping anyway. He yanks at his cuffs, but they don’t give, because of course they fucking don’t. He yanks again, and again. Nothing.

“Now,” says EC, “do you have any names?”

“No,” says Michael. He sounds kind of strangled. He tries again, a determined, “You’re wasting time. You’re gonna fucking die. I’m trying to help you here.”

EC sighs. “I hate playing hardball,” he says, “because it gets so messy, but the both of you really are stubborn. Perhaps some additional motivation will convince you.”

He pulls out a gun, and Michael hears his own blood rushing in his ears. 

The gun is aimed, oh so slowly, toward Meg’s uninjured foot. Meg is still panting, sagging a bit in the guards’ holds. 

“If you want her to be able to limp out of here… or walk ever again, you’ll give me a name, Michael. It’s an easy question.”

Everything seems like it’s happening just a little too fast, and it takes Michael a second to even process what’s been said. He blinks slowly, head injury warring with the clarity of panic, and then everything snaps back into place. Before, he can say anything, though, Meg cuts in.

“Don’t you dare,” she says, so vehement that Michael’s attention snaps to her immediately. “Don’t tell him anything.”

“Meg,” he says helplessly. Fuck. He’s gotta get himself together. He hears, distantly, a thud, like something being dropped a floor above them.

The thing is, he knows this isn’t just about one name. It isn’t even about five names. If he breaks, he’s as good as dead, because the word will spread across Los Santos and the surrounding areas, and he’ll be stuck looking over his shoulder forever. They’ll all want to take him, because they’ll know he’s weak. He can’t betray his crew, but he also can’t put them through that. He’d have to leave.

“Let her go,” he says. “Let her go and I’ll tell you.”

EC raises his eyebrows. “You’re in no position to be making demands.” He raises the gun until it’s pointing between Meg’s eyes instead of at her foot. Meg doesn’t flinch. Closes her eyes. There’s muffled screaming coming from upstairs, and Meg’s face is smooth as she waits for something to happen.

It’s an impossible choice.

It’s an impossible choice, except for how it isn’t impossible at all. “Okay,” he says, fast, face hot with nerves. There’s no room for error here. “Okay, alright, I’ll tell you. Fuck. Put the fucking gun down, I’ll tell you.”

Meg opens her eyes, and her gaze is more _where are you going with this_ than it is _wait no what are you doing_ , so Michael takes it as a cue to be careful.

He takes a deep breath, trying to center himself. His head is still pounding something awful, ears ringing a little like even his brain is rioting against all this. Or, more likely, he’s concussed, but he’d rather not ruminate on that right now. “You win,” he says, quiet. EC looks pleased, so Michael keeps going. “Just- let her go. Promise me you will. You can blow my brains out after I tell you, whatever, I don’t care, but promise me she gets to walk.”

EC’s eyebrows raise, like he’s surprised Michael is this naïve, but he lowers the gun and smiles. “Of course,” he says, smarmy and awful. “She’s free to go as soon as we get the information we need. So, the names.” 

_Come on_ , thinks Michael. _Come on, come on, come on_ -

The only door leading out of the room blows off the hinges just as Michael’s bluff is about to be called. The air is hot with fire, and he flinches against the sound of gunshots, sharp and cracking and way too close to his head. Lackey on the left drops first, then the guy to his right collapses gracelessly to his knees before face planting into a pool of his own blood.

“Hey,” says Geoff, running over amidst the chaos, “just hang tight for a second, security upstairs was a fucking nightmare. Ryan’s clearing it up while we finish here, then we’ll bust back out and get home.”

“Just hang tight,” repeats Michael disbelievingly. “Will you at least cut me out of here?”

Geoff double takes like he’s only just realizing that that’s an option. “Oh,” he says, “shit, yeah, sorry.” He pulls out a gun and shoots the chain on the wall that connects to Michael’s ankle on the other side, then slices through the weak points of the cuffs on Michael’s wrists with a knife, prying at the links until they come open. The actual cuffs on his wrists are still connected, but he’s not stuck to the chair anymore, so he’ll take it.

He tries to stand up, but the world spins immediately, tilting hard on its axis. He almost blacks out in half a second. “Jesus,” he says.

“I said hang tight,” repeats Geoff, but he sounds worried, and looks awfully concerned when Michael just looks at him blearily.

“Alright,” says Michael. He struggles to look around the room, but everything is too bright and people are moving too fast and it’s almost impossible to tell who’s here and who’s not. “Where’s-“

Part of his question ends up being answered when Gavin appears in a flurry of motion and makes a hurt sound at seeing Michael. “Sorry we were late,” he says, crouching down next to him, and sounds genuinely upset about it. “Lindsay’s dealing with the prick who set this all up right now. Spoilers, pretty sure he’s gonna die.”

In any other version of this story, Michael smiles a bloody, toothy smile at that. In this version, he just asks, “Meg?”

Gavin’s brow furrows. “She went upstairs. Did she not just get here?” 

Michael goes cold. He cranes his neck, trying to see the other side of the room. It’s all swimming. “She’s been here,” he insists. “She’s hurt. Gav, you gotta-“

“I’m on it,” says Geoff. Gavin goes to protest, standing up straight, but Geoff shuts him down. “Stay here. He needs a concussion test, not to be left alone."

“Geoff-“ says Gavin. He sounds lost.

Geoff claps his shoulder. “We got it,” he says. “Test him. Ryan and Jack will be done clearing us out soon, and then we’ll figure the rest out if we need to. Okay?”

Gavin pauses for a beat, then nods.

“Good,” says Geoff, and turns, barking something into his radio.

Gavin turns back to Michael, plastering on an abysmal attempt at a reassuring smile. “Alright, boi. Repeat after me, alright? But do it backwards. Like, the reverse of what I say. You know how this goes, yeah?"

“Yeah,” says Michael, even though it’s hard to follow Gavin’s train of thought even moreso than usual.

The test, as expected, goes pretty poorly, and Michael’s head hurts trying to focus so hard on something that should be so simple. Gavin, hands shaking, is trying to keep his expression calm, but Michael knows him too well to be fooled by that.

Michael’s about to say something, even if it’s trite or rings false, to get Gavin to relax, when Ryan appears in the doorway, blood streaked across his shoulder, carrying Meg in his arms. “It’s clear,” he yells, voice echoing through the space.

Gavin glances at Michael and then at Meg, looks torn. “Go,” says Michael. “I’m fine, he said it’s clear. Go see if she’s okay.”

Gavin nods gratefully and runs over. Michael only ends up being alone for a second before Jack is at his side, gentle fingers tipping his chin up so she can get a good look at him.

“I’m fine,” complains Michael, but he doesn’t shrug Jack off.

She’s quiet, observing the mess that is his face, and he sighs. Quite frankly, he’s too tired to keep putting up a front, and it’s not like Jack doesn’t see right through it anyway. Her Hawaiian shirt has a couple of blood splatters, but she doesn’t look particularly worse for the wear, so he lets himself relax bit as she continues to check him over.

“Is Lindsay still down here?” he asks quietly.

“She is,” says Jack. “I can go get her if you promise to keep your eyes open.”

Michael’s not stupid. He knows sleep and head injuries are an awful combination. His eyes are heavy, though, and his head wants to loll forward. “Promise,” he says, instead of I’m not sure I can, because he knows Jack knows and he’s gotten through harder things on sheer stubbornness alone before.

Time passes in a disorienting lurch, and then Lindsay’s crouching in front of Michael, expression fierce. “He’s dead,” she tells him, matter of fact. “All of them are dead. Meg’s fine, she was asking about you.”

It’s so hard to focus. Michael feels his vision blurring in and out. “Lindsay,” he says, feeling lost. “I don’t know if I can walk. Too- dizzy.” He keeps having to drag his mind back to the matter at hand. “I don’t- will you help me up?”

“Where are you hurt?” asks Lindsay. Her eyes have gone soft, one hand resting on his knee. He covers her hand with his own and tries to think.

“Head,” he starts with. He can hear his voice starting to slur. “Stomach, ribs. One of my ankles, the one tha’s chained. Uh, wrists maybe? Not sure.”

Lindsay nods. “Jack? Geoff?” she calls, not bothering to turn around. It echoes in the now quiet basement. “Can you help me get him out of here?”

“Geoff and Gavin took Meg up,” says Ryan, suddenly much closer than he was before. “I’ll help you with this one.” He’s not wearing his mask, has started wearing it less and less in the past few weeks, and his face paint is only barely smeared. If Michael didn’t know better, he’d find it hard to believe that Ryan with his sweet blue eyes carved them a path out of here practically single-handedly.

As it is, he’s not surprised at all. “Hi Ryan,” he says blearily.

“Hey bud,” says Ryan gently, which is how Michael knows he looks just as bad as he feels. This crew is touchy-feely, sure, but they don’t get soft with each other in the field unless something is seriously wrong. “I’m gonna pick you up, that alright?”

Michael goes to nod, but it hurts. “Yeah,” he manages instead.

Ryan hoists him up with a grunt, jostling pretty much all of Michael’s injuries. Michael groans, feels the black creeping in at the edges of his vision. Could be the blood loss, or the head trauma, or the pain. Could be any host of things trying to drag him under.

He swears colorfully when they hit the stairs and hopes it sounds vaguely coherent. Lindsay is holding one of his hands, fingers curled loosely around his, and she keeps up a low stream of mostly one-sided conversation, probably trying to stop him from falling asleep.

It feels like years before they get to the car, but they manage it. The police aren’t even on the right street yet, just a faint sound of sirens in the distance signaling their presence. Chances are they don’t know where they’re going. Morons.

He ends up in the back of an armored car with his head in Lindsay’s lap. “Tell Geoff- can you tell him, we, uh. We didn’t. We didn’t give ‘em anything.” It suddenly seems of paramount importance that Geoff know. “And Gav, we didn’t comprise- compromo- compromise anyone. But they knew. How’d they know?”

Lindsay shushes him, carding a hand through his hair. “I’ll tell them,” she promises.

“But they knew,” says Michael again.

Lindsay looks tired. “We’ll figure it out,” she says. “We’re gonna get you home first, though, so we can patch you up.”

“Alright,” says Michael, finally, urgency draining out of him and being replaced with exhaustion. “Lindsay, m’tired.”

“I know,” answers Lindsay. “Just a little longer.”

Michael loses the rest of the ride to his scattered brain, picking up just on tiny details: the murmur of Jack and Ryan talking up front, the roughness of Lindsay’s jeans against his hot, bruised cheek, the way he’s just that little bit too tall to be lying back here so his legs have to curl against the car door.

It’s just thirty minutes, but it feels like hours before they’re home.

//

“Get him to the back room,” says Jeremy immediately when they arrive, Michael hanging heavily off of Ryan on one side and Lindsay on the other. “Concussion, you said? And bruising, possible internal bleeding, maybe a sprain?"

“Yeah,” says Lindsay. “He’s pretty out of it, though. I don’t know if there’s anything else.”

“Alright,” answers Jeremy. He’s usually so exuberant, even when he’s sewing someone back together, but he’s all business now, not even a ghost of a smile on his face.

Michael lets himself be led to the back and laid down on the makeshift hospital bed. “Lil J,” he mumbles, “c’n I sleep?”

The skin around Jeremy’s eyes is tight with concern. “Not yet, buddy.”

“Well, fuck,” says Michael, eyes closing. He’s so fucking tired. It was only a matter of time before he knocked out. This is an inconvenient time for it, but there’s nothing he can do to keep himself afloat for now.

//

He wakes up to a quiet conversation. 

“The bruised rib would be the worst part if it weren’t for his head.”

“He’s an idiotic, self-sacrificing-“

“Hey, I’m not arguing that. Just saying he’s gotta be careful. He might not even remember what happened for a few days. Brains are weird like that.”

“I just hate this. None of this would’ve happened if I’d said something.”

“You’d both be dead.”

“Or maybe he wouldn’t be hurt this badly.”

“You did what you could.”

“I-“

Michael groans, stirring as his brain finally comes fully back online. Or- partially back online. Ow. It feels like someone’s trying to drive a wedge between the base of his skull and his neck, and two more behind his eyes. “Fuck,” he manages. His eyelids feel swollen, so he doesn’t even bother trying to open them yet.

He feel someone sit on the edge of his bed, fingers trailing cool and careful over his hairline. “Morning, sleeping beauty,” says Meg. Her voice sounds wet, thick, like she’s been crying.

Michael frowns. “Meg?” He feels three steps behind, slow and tired. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she says, a little stronger. “Honestly. Foot’s broken, but it’ll heal.”

“It’s you we’re more worried about,” adds Jeremy from a little farther away.

Michael would roll his eyes or make some quip if he weren’t so tired. As it is, he just sighs.

Michael tries to sit up, but hisses when he puts weight on his right wrist. He feels a hand press down gently but firmly on the center of his chest, keeping him flat to the bed. “Rest,” orders Jeremy. “There’s no rush.”

“There’s a leak,” he says slowly. “We need to-“

“Gavin’s on it,” says Meg. “He’s been working on it since you passed out. I’m gonna tag him out soon.”

“Okay,” says Michael. He struggles to add more, but the words feel too far away, thoughts like wisps of smoke he can’t hold onto before they dissipate into the air. 

He feels Meg place a kiss to his hair before she gets up. Normally, he’d make a face or something, but for now he just lies there. Rests.

//

The next time Michael wakes up, Meg’s still there and she’s accompanied by Geoff, who’s thumbing through something on his tablet.

He opens his eyes this time, even though one of them is practically swollen shut, and it’s worth it to see them. “Hi,” he says, voice rasping.

Geoff passes him a cup of water. “Hey, kid.”

“Thanks,” says Michael. He feels a little more alert than he did last time, though articulating his thoughts still feel like wading through molasses. He looks at Meg, sees the cast on her foot and the messy signatures. She wouldn’t still be here if it weren’t for him, he knows. She’s in danger the longer she’s here, people trying to take advantage of her like they did before if they find out how close to them she is. 

She catches his gaze and smiles a little, but it’s sallow, tired.

“I’m sorry,” says Michael, labored.

Meg frowns. “For what?”

Michael takes another sip of water, tries to center himself. “You got hurt,” he says. “Because of us. Because of me.”

Meg looks at him for another second, and she must see something honest in his expression, because her face crumples in the blink of an eye. She swipes at her tears angrily, brows furrowed.

Geoff looks between them. “I’ll give you two a minute. Just shout if you need anything.”

No one answers, so he lets himself out.

Meg swallows hard, scrubs her hands across her face again. “We didn’t know if you’d remember us,” she says after a moment. “They kept hitting you, and I didn’t say anything, and- I could’ve lost you. We all could’ve.”

“I remember you,” says Michael. It only serves to make Meg cry harder, so he beckons her over. “C’mere,” he says. “C’mon, come lie with me.”

Meg collects herself and walks over, lying ever so carefully on the narrow bed without jostling Michael too badly. She ends up with her head on his shoulder.

They’re quiet for a minute, then Gavin pops his head into the room. “Hey we got the coordinates, we’re heading out soon.”

Meg raises a thumbs up, eyes still shut.

Gavin’s expression softens. “We’ll be back in half an hour tops. How’re you feeling, Michael?”

“Shitty,” says Michael, but he offers a small smile, because the situation sucks but it could be a whole lot worse, and this isn’t the first or last time he’ll be bedridden by injury.

“I’m bringing my rocket launcher,” says Gavin, tossing back a grin.

It’s messed up, maybe, but that really does make Michael feel a little better. “Knock ‘em dead,” he says.

Gavin barks a laugh, then tapers off into giggles. “That’s the plan, innit? It’ll be a pile of ash by the time we’re done with it.”

“Good,” says Michael, and then again, quieter, “good.”

//

Gavin and Lindsay both walk in twenty-five minutes later. Michael welcomes the company, since Meg fell asleep on him and he’s just been staring at the ceiling since trying to reconstruct his fragmented memories of it all.

“Leak’s gone,” says Lindsay cheerfully, mindful to keep her voice low. She’s smiling. “I’m glad she’s finally sleeping, she was dead on her feet for a couple days.”

“Yeah,” agrees Gavin. “Most of us worried ourselves sick, really, but she was the worst. It was bad in there with the two of you, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” says Michael quietly. “Pretty bad. Could’ve been worse, though.”

Gavin walks over and takes the chair next to the bed, on Meg’s side. His hair is sticking up at all kinds of weird angles like he and Lindsay had just taken a bike and rolled out, which is most likely exactly what happened.

Lindsay sits on the love seat on Michael’s side, a little ways away. “When we found out you were missing,” says Lindsay, “we all kind of lost it. Meg, she goes off on her own sometimes, but you don’t disappear. Not like that. It was scary.”

“Sorry,” says Michael around the lump in his throat.

“No,” says Lindsay, “not trying to make you feel bad, just- I’m glad you’re okay.”

Michael, for all that he’s alive, isn’t really okay, but he knows Lindsay knows that. After getting his face bashed in, seeing Meg get hurt, and trying so desperately to out-think someone who was one step ahead the entire time, none of them expect him to be peachy fucking keen, but there are so many ways this could’ve ended worse than it did. He’s here, and he’s healing, and he’s got the people he loves all around in him. He’ll be alright, and he’ll get back out into the field. Hell, maybe in a couple months he’ll be blowing shit up again, laughing in the face of the flames, fire lighting him up like a beacon. Like a homing signal. Like the most perfect version of himself he knows how to be. 

He’s not fine, but maybe he is okay. Maybe that’s a fair point to make.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, me too.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr at teamokdynamite.tumblr.com! Come chat with me!


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